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Literature Text
There are times I wish I could start at the end. Endings are what people cling to; what we remember when the book has been shut. It's the ending we talk about with our friends and stay up until the early hours of morning pondering about. Perhaps that's why endings are so beautiful—it is only then that we know the truth of all which came prior.
If only our beginnings could be as simple. What are we when we start but a blank sheet, ready for anything to be written. Some of us will be etched with beautiful design, calligraphic texts of love letters sent and responded to; others hastily scribbled upon and then crinkled up and tossed into the waste basket, never to be read again. Time can bring beauty or death, cruelty only as harsh as the quill decides to press.
In the beginning, we are all the same. No ink, no tears, no bends. We stand together upon a shelf, awaiting the first stroke of the master's quill to guide us to our eventual ends. We are pure, clean, and intact. Naivety is our only author.
It's a shame when he finally opens us, he uses permanent ink.
We never know if our future is bound in a cherished leatherback journal or torn and left among the cinders of burning barrels. We never know if our words will reach another and touch their heart or remain forever hidden in the bottom shelf of a writer's desk. And, we never know what kind of scars we will carry: slight tears or bends, or even pages torn from our spines, lost forever. It's only in the end that we come to know the extent of the damage.
If only our beginnings could be as simple. What are we when we start but a blank sheet, ready for anything to be written. Some of us will be etched with beautiful design, calligraphic texts of love letters sent and responded to; others hastily scribbled upon and then crinkled up and tossed into the waste basket, never to be read again. Time can bring beauty or death, cruelty only as harsh as the quill decides to press.
In the beginning, we are all the same. No ink, no tears, no bends. We stand together upon a shelf, awaiting the first stroke of the master's quill to guide us to our eventual ends. We are pure, clean, and intact. Naivety is our only author.
It's a shame when he finally opens us, he uses permanent ink.
We never know if our future is bound in a cherished leatherback journal or torn and left among the cinders of burning barrels. We never know if our words will reach another and touch their heart or remain forever hidden in the bottom shelf of a writer's desk. And, we never know what kind of scars we will carry: slight tears or bends, or even pages torn from our spines, lost forever. It's only in the end that we come to know the extent of the damage.
Literature
001. beginnings.
Beginnings are vague things. Quite often you can't pin them down to one event you have to trawl back further and further through foggy past, peeling apart what ifs and untangling strands of memories.
Eventually one has to go all the way back to the start of the universe, and that's a question even the experts have to shrug their shoulders at. It's not like you can plug it into a calculator and come out with a balanced algorithm. At least, not yet.
But it is true that sometimes you can fasten down an occurrence or a moment or even just a single breath, like sticking a thumbtack through a dead butterfly, and label it as a 'beginning' i
Literature
001. Blink
Don’t.
The world will deconstruct while your eyes are closed, in that split second when you’re not looking. Stars will fall and galaxies will explode, and people will vanish into thin air like trailing puffs of cigarette smoke under a neon light. You’ll be left alone with stardust and ash and a feeling that you once knew the meaning of life, but you forgot to remind yourself to remember.
Don’t blink.
Fourteen years, three months, and twenty-six days. That’s nothing, after everything you’ve been through, but they were still the hardest. It was hard to think with stardust in your hair and ash in your lungs
Literature
001
i am a whirlwind of
bruised knees
(purple)
an aching heart
(dark blue)
twisted guts
(red)
&
a regret that could
crumble mountains.
(green-green-green)
Suggested Collections
This deviation was featured on January 30th, 2013 in the Daily Literature Deviation article.
Chosen as the "Daily Pick" at =DailyLitDeviations (Jan. 30th, 2013)
100 Theme Challenge: 001 -- Introduction
It's been a few years since I tackled the 100 Theme Challenge here on deviantArt, and I figured it was time to start up again. For my really old watchers, I'm sure you remember some of the old pieces I had done, but hopefully these show much improvement since then and are at least a little more interesting.
The first time I tried this challenge, I was writing poetry; this time, I'll be writing prose.
I think the main reason I want to is, aside from wanting to do it again for months, this will help keep me writing a little bit every day, and hopefully get me ready to work back on my novels again soon in the upcoming months. (Also, helping me count down my days until I move to London!)
So, as the start of my 2012 attempt at the 100 Theme Challenge, I hope you enjoy!
Chosen as the "Daily Pick" at =DailyLitDeviations (Jan. 30th, 2013)
100 Theme Challenge: 001 -- Introduction
It's been a few years since I tackled the 100 Theme Challenge here on deviantArt, and I figured it was time to start up again. For my really old watchers, I'm sure you remember some of the old pieces I had done, but hopefully these show much improvement since then and are at least a little more interesting.
The first time I tried this challenge, I was writing poetry; this time, I'll be writing prose.
I think the main reason I want to is, aside from wanting to do it again for months, this will help keep me writing a little bit every day, and hopefully get me ready to work back on my novels again soon in the upcoming months. (Also, helping me count down my days until I move to London!)
So, as the start of my 2012 attempt at the 100 Theme Challenge, I hope you enjoy!
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